(Not) Your Usual Ups and Downs
by KADH
Summary: What Sara didn't tell Catherine about her and Grissom's time back in Vegas. Prequel to Feint of Heart. Takes place post episodes 1601/2 "Immortality," circa Thanksgiving week November 2015.
1. One: Pancakes, Plants and Photographs

**(Not) Your Usual Ups and Downs**

What Sara didn't tell Catherine about her and Grissom's time back in Vegas.

 _Prequel to_ Feint of Heart.

 _Takes place post episodes 1601/2 "_ Immortality,"

 _circa Thanksgiving week November 2015._

xxxxxxx

"Any day spent with you is my favorite day.

So today is my new favorite day,"

 _Winnie the Pooh_

A. A. Milne

xxxxxxx

 **One: Pancakes, Plants and Photographs; or It's Good to be Home**

Sara woke that Wednesday with a start to find herself back in her own bed in her darkened Vegas apartment.

Alone.

Her heart sank.

 _Dream_ , she thought, clenching her eyes shut in disappointment.

 _Grissom here. The boat. California. Paris. It had all been a dream_. _A wonderful, beautiful, unbelievable dream. One far, far too good to be true, let alone actually real._

Only not for the first time, could she practically smell him in the sheets, despite the cool of the fabric beneath her questing fingertips.

That and a familiar warm, sweet scent she vaguely registered as pancakes. But then she'd woken to that phantom fragrance before, too many times before.

Too bad wishing couldn't make something so.

If so -

No, Sara would not let herself finish that thought.

 _Just_ _another day_ , she sighed as she switched on the lamp before swinging her feet over the side of the mattress.

Once her breathing finally returned to normal, she would rise and start another day.

 _Shower. Dress. Work._

There always was plenty of work.

Las Vegas was ever good for that. About the only thing she had liked the city for for quite some time now.

It kept her too busy to miss him. Or at least allowed her to convince herself she didn't have time to miss him. Which she did and she did.

Then as she went to brush her sleep mussed hair back behind one ear, Sara felt it, that as yet unfamiliar presence, the unaccustomed heaviness on the third finger of her left hand.

She glanced down to find a narrow gold band glistening in the faint light. Sara stared at it for a long moment unsure if she could trust what her eyes were telling her.

Yet there it was, real as anything: her wedding ring.

She grinned; nearly wept all at once.

 _Not a dream._

 _Real._

 _Real._

She hadn't imagined him in the sheets; hadn't conjured the sugary redolence of sizzling pancakes.

Still, her not quite calm query of "Gil?" escaped her lips before she could call it back.

And his voice, both unsurprising and not, floated through the crack in the door: "Kitchen, dear."

Sara let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. One that turned into a laugh as Hank eagerly nudged the bedroom door open.

"Hey, buddy," she happily greeted the boxer once he, admittedly a little stiffly, yet no less eagerly, clambered onto the bed beside her.

Sara gasped as he slathered her in sloppy dog kisses.

Stroking him behind the ears, she said, "Good morning to you, too."

"Come on," she urged after a while, "let's see what trouble your daddy's up to."

Although Sara had no clue how she could have possibly missed it: the busy puttering of someone trying - albeit failing - to be quiet in the other room. All of which was what had probably woken her in the first place.

That and the hunger inducing whiff of her favorite breakfast.

Himself hopeful when it came to being fed, Hank gladly lumbered out in the lead. Sara, however, lingered in the now open doorway, caught up short at the sight of her undershirt and pajama bottom clad, dish towel draped over one shoulder, distinctly disheveled, yet completely composed husband adding a pancake to the growing stack on a plate before returning it all to keep warm in the oven.

That and he was humming of all things.

Sara flushed with fondness at the man she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with: her best friend, partner, lover and once again husband. Her heart nearly burst with it.

Some realities really were far better than any dreams.

As he rose, his eyes met hers and Grissom gave her one of his patented lopsided smiles of the sort Sara never could resist.

How she loved that man.

Still beaming, she leant in to brush a kiss along one scruffy cheek and murmured, "Good morning, Gilbert," into his ear.

Not missing the tease, just not rising to it, Grissom replied, "I was just about to bring you breakfast," by way of greeting.

While he had been tempted, sorely tempted, to linger a lot longer in bed that morning, he knew there would be no return to sleep for him. As he hadn't wanted to wake Sara, she needing the extra sleep with all the stress of the upcoming trial, instead he had slipped silently from the sheets, tucked the covers back about his still slumbering wife and summoned a very reluctant Hank out of the bedroom.

Noticing how the batter bowl was already empty, Sara observed, "Someone's been busy."

Grissom merely shrugged as if to say _Idle hands_ and moved the bowl to the sink to be washed.

"And they do smell good - As usual."

Sara smiled, realizing in that moment that somehow in just a few days, the mere presence of Gil Grissom had managed to transform her lonely old apartment into quite the cozy honeymooners' love nest.

Again, he shrugged. "You know what they say -"

"No, what?" she laughed.

"'He who goes to bed hungry dreams of pancakes.'"

"Really?"

Before he could reply, her mirth seemed to morph more into mischief and Sara reached across him to turn the oven down as low as it would go.

At his quizzical look, Sara said, "While you do make great - and I mean _great_ pancakes, they're not what I'm most wanting to have in bed this morning."

"And what," Grissom asked his own voice going a little breathless, "is it you're wanting in bed instead?"

This time her words buzzed against his lips.

" _You -_ "

So as there could be absolutely no mistaking what she intended, Sara tugged at the ties to his pajama pants. Grissom took the hint and readily followed his wife back to her - or rather their - bedroom.

Besides, pancakes really did make an equally delicious dinner.

xxxxxxx

Sara was halfway to the front door of the Las Vegas Crime Lab when Grissom called her back to her Prius.

While she was very nearly verging on being late for her morning meeting with Deputy District Attorney Andrea Yeager, Sara couldn't help but be far more amused than annoyed at the summons. After all, it was awfully hard to be upset when you were the one who insisted on returning to bed - and then to that overlong shower together afterwards.

Figuring a few more minutes wouldn't make any difference, she trotted back to the car.

"You forgot something," Grissom said once she had popped her head in the driver's side window.

Sara's brow wrinkled at this.

"Lunch," he supplied, passing a plain brown paper sack to her. "Your usual," he added at her continued perplexed expression.

Which Sara knew meant a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of baby carrots and a handful of grapes, all quick and easy items to eat, just in case things got really busy, which they did frequently tend to do.

"And this -"

To which to Sara's surprise Grissom drew her in for a rather lengthy kiss.

But then he always was full of surprises.

"Play nice with the other kids," he said once they'd both pulled away.

"Yes, Gilbert," smirked Sara.

It was Grissom's turn to look askance. Two _Gilberts_ in one morning meant either he was in some sort of trouble, the nature of which he couldn't even begin to fathom, or he had been doing something very right indeed.

From her grin, he figured it was far more likely the latter than the former, that and the simple _I love you_ she signed behind her back as she strode back to the office.

Sara was nearly at the door when her phone pinged to announce an incoming text. She drew out her phone to read:

 **Grissom**

 **Today** 8:58 AM

Don't work too late.

Sara nearly snorted at this.

Rather hypocritical, she thought, considering how many times she had had to remind him of as much over the years.

Though her rue didn't last past the next part of his message:

 **Grissom**

Will keep those pancakes warm

for your return. Unless you're

already tired of them

Sara swiftly typed a reply:

 **Sara**

Tired of your pancakes?

Never. Have fun with Eli.

Try and stay out of trouble

while you're in Vegas this time

To which Grissom gave her a perfunctory:

 **Grissom**

Year, dear

Sara, far too intent as she was on her phone, missed the way three of her former coworkers simply stood there in the parking lot gawking after her.

xxxxxxx

The small city park was empty by the time Grissom and Hank settled in for the morning. A fact which didn't bother either in the slightest. Hank, contentedly curled up at his master's feet, was soon fast asleep. Grissom set aside his daily crossword puzzle for a moment to concentrate on his sketchbook.

Easily locating his bookmark, he flipped to his current sketch, one begun only a few days before. Unlike most of his drawings, hastily dashed off in half an hour or so as they were, as this one was of a memory he particularly savored, Grissom was in no rush to complete it.

That morning, he focused on the detail of Sara's left hand curled about the covers, the wedding ring he had slipped on her finger only hours before gleaming in the faint morning light of their first morning as husband and wife - the second time.

 _His wife -_

While he might never say as much to her, Grissom rather liked regarding Sara that way again.

He never really had managed to wrap his head around the whole her being his ex-wife thing, even if he had been the idiot who had asked for the divorce in the first place.

She was just Sara. His Sara. Or at least she once had been.

Thankfully, she was again.

Which made things a lot simpler, and kept him out of trouble.

The previous month when they had both been back in Paris together, Grissom had, out of old habit or perhaps wishful thinking, managed to forget the whole _ex_ thing entirely and proceeded in his usual easy French to repeatedly introduce Sara as his wife without even realizing it.

They had been down in Sainte-Chapelle's lower chapel when upon saying _adieu_ to yet another of Grissom's former natural sciences colleagues, Sara had finally called him out on the habit.

"Gil, you do realize that's the third time you've introduced me as your wife tonight," she said, though she sounded far more amused than annoyed.

"Old habit, sorry," he hurriedly apologized. Which was partly true. As every other time they had been together in Paris she had been _sa femme_ , the introduction had just happened to roll naturally off the tip of his tongue.

"It's... It's... fine," Sara said, smiling slightly and looking for all the world like she really didn't mind at all.

Grissom supposed he could have introduced her as _son amour_. They were after all definitely lovers: they loved each other; made love to each other. Perhaps in France he might have, but truth or no, one did not announce such things in the United States. _Lover_ , however apt, sounded horribly salacious in English. D.A. Monroe had certainly made that perfectly plain during Natalie Davis' sanity hearing.

Sara was certainly more than his "girlfriend" - a phrase he'd never used when thinking of her.

Ultimately, he settled on presenting her a la British fashion as his partner to his various American scientific acquaintances. Which Sara was, in every sense of the word.

Not that it wasn't plain even in the way he said her name that they were far more than mere work partners, though they were that, too, and truly equals again like they had been those last few years together in Vegas.

But these days Grissom could now return to calling Sara his wife with all the attendant pleasure and pride of it.

As he continued to pencil in the particulars, he recalled that morning, not even a week before now: him returning to bed to find her still asleep and slightly snoring - and barely covered, the sheet having slipped from her shoulders to reveal the soft swell of a breast and the smattering of freckles which tickled down the slight slope of her spine, only to pool in the sweet hollow at the small of her back, one of his favorite places to kiss.

Grissom knew he would never tire of that sight.

 _En déshabillé_ , bareback and sprawled (not unusually) across the king-sized mattress with her honey hued curls haloed about her head along the pillow, Grissom had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Once, he had told her as much, on a morning much like this one, the one after they had been married the first time, when he had discovered her nearly very much the same, that Sara would be even more beautiful when she was old and grey.

For she certainly was even more comely now than she had been the first time they'd met and she had struck him as beautiful even then.

 _Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be..._

His mind supplied. However frequently taken completely out of context, Robert Browning's oft-quoted words still rang true and Grissom relished in their possibilities.

That first morning all those years ago had, even more so than that of the wedding day before, had been one of the happiest days of his life. It felt like that now too, the morning after their second marriage.

He felt beyond happy. Fortunate. Grateful. This reality being beyond anything he knew he ever deserved. He knew, too, that this - this morning - this life - was what he wanted more than anything and he was glad he hadn't waited a minute longer to do something about it.

That morning as the faint dawn light crept about the curtains, Grissom had happily returned to her warmth in the bed, burying his face in her curls as he molded his body into hers. Breathing her in, he'd held her close.

Yes, this was what he wanted - for always.

That morning he smiled at the feel of her fingers threading through his, her gold band brushing against his own.

With a sleepy sigh, Sara nestled deeper into him, content to linger here and in the pleasurable memories of the night before, when well past sunset they had finally managed to make their way back to their hotel room.

At that hour, an exhausted Hank was eager to do nothing more than climb onto the covers to sleep.

While Grissom had readily bent to let the boxer off his leash, both he and Sara lacked Hank's hurry. The two of them lingered in the open doorway, neither able to take their eyes off each other or smother their smiles.

"I should carry you across the threshold," Grissom murmured at last.

Sara beamed. While romantic, the thought was utterly unpractical.

"Kiss me across it instead."

Albeit technically she was the one who kissed him first, full, hard and long on the mouth.

When they both finally came up for air, Grissom was pleased to find himself pleasantly pinned against the newly closed door.

With both hands he brushed back her windswept hair. His thumbs caressed her still pink with the chill of being out on the water cheeks and while her eyes were bright, her smile proved even brighter.

"I love you," he said simply, straight from the heart.

"I know," Sara beamed. Then her expression turned tender. "Good thing your wife loves you, too."

At the word _wife_ , Grissom's entire face lit up more luminous than any Vegas skyline.

She had chosen him over everyone, anyone. How - why - he never knew - would never know, nor understand.

But despite everything, she had.

He found words failed him, like they so often were wont to do when it came to Sara.

This time though Grissom knew exactly what to do about it: he kissed her.

Soon slow and gentle gave way to hungry and wanting and then to weak-kneed breathlessness.

Both wanting closer, wanting more, they began unwrapping each other between ever more urgent kisses.

In the midst of all the closed-eyed, completely consuming kissing, Sara's fingers fumbled to find the zip to Grissom's jacket. Eventually, there came the distant rasp of metal. He released his hold on her only long enough to let the heavy fabric fall to the floor. The buttons to his oxford came no easier. Though at least his undershirt readily came over his head. Grissom tugged off her sweater then clumsily - though endearingly as ever - popped the clasp to her bra. The two kissed skin on skin close before they scrambled out of the rest of their clothes.

They were both naked and him inside her by the time they made it to the mattress.

In that moment, Gil Grissom poured all his love, his hope, his joy into her; she returned it love for love, hope for hope, joy for joy, kiss for kiss.

And they made love with all the earnest eagerness of those lost - and found.

Waking the following morning curled up beside him, had for Sara at least, done little to diminish the unreality of it all.

"It still feels like a dream sometimes, doesn't it?" Sara murmured feeling as safe, warm and content as she ever had in his arms as they lay in bed together for a while enjoying the closeness, neither quite ready to surrender to the day just yet.

"All of this -"

As Grissom nodded into her neck, Romeo's ill-fated words drifted through his mind:

I am afeard,

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Only Sara would not let that morning slip into melancholy, even momentarily.

Answering her own question, with a quiet "Yeah" of her own, she said, her palm trailing up the length of his bare arm, "Only you feel pretty real to me."

At the contact, Grissom's eyes closed, electric as always between them.

"And awake," Sara grinned. Wiggling a little mischievously against him, she relished in his body's immediate reply, his certainly not so innocent biological response impossible to mistake - or ignore.

But then as Gil Grissom well knew, this particular woman naked in the bed beside him did tend to have that particular effect on him.

"Very awake, _Gilbert_." She practically purred his full name.

Grissom had never felt more real and awake in his life.

He groaned at the grasp of her hand on him; let out a long low moan at the tease of her touch. Sara simply smirked thoroughly enjoying the hitch and catch of his breath, the rumble in his chest, the gasp into her hair, his pleasure plain.

" _Sara -_ "

Those two syllables were all it took for her to roll over in response and pin him as firmly to the mattress as she had to the door the night before.

Grissom certainly wasn't about to complain, couldn't in any case as her mouth currently covered his in a heady kiss, one he readily returned.

Long, sweet and tender, they made love that morning as newlyweds were wont to do.

xxxxxxx

The past few days, like the past weeks and months had passed in unexpectedly happy blur for Gil Grissom. Things had changed - and not. He still did his _Jacques Cousteau thing_ , only it wasn't only Hank who accompanied him onboard the _Ishmael_ , but Sara as well. Sara who had taken to life aboard ship as a fish does to water - at least once she had gotten her sea legs back beneath her again.

Dramamine she claimed worked wonders, at least for keeping the not so occasional bout of seasickness at bay. That and the ginger candy she took to sucking when the swells rolled particularly high.

Like the heady scent of lavender or the honeyed perfume of orange blossoms, the piquant hint of spice would from then on at least on his part come to symbolize the sweetness of a life lived together again.

Said life began to return to some semblance of a regular rhythm as they spent the weeks following Sara's arrival in San Diego prowling the Southern California coast for poachers. All too easily they fell into that old familiar camaraderie.

The loving one another that had never left.

It wasn't about not being alone, their being together again. It was about wanting to be with each other, about needing to be with each other.

Both reveled in the present present, the gift of days and nights spent once again side by side.

Frequently, they worked late into the dark, the hours passing so fast that before they knew it, sunrise had snuck up upon them again: bright and bold and gilding all the world in gold.

In Vegas, working the Graveyard shift as they had, both had nearly always been up with the sun but so seldom ever had the chance to savor the sunrise. The two of them certainly cherished them now. That and being able to slip off to sleep together as the day began. The _Ishmael's_ snug double bunk naturally led to being cuddled close. Neither one complained.

Well into the afternoon, when they finally clambered out of bed, the time would often find Sara engaged on deck in her start of the day yoga, while below Grissom, busied himself in the galley with breakfast. Thus, it would all begin again.

True, they were still negotiating what a life lived together might mean. They still had their problems. Everyone did. That wasn't going to instantly change.

Perhaps it wasn't _happily ever after,_ that perpetual peace that fairy tales promised, but it was _happy here and now_ which mattered most. The future they would work to build together.

While Grissom might still not always have the words to tell her all his heart, he took Sara's advice and showed her as much as he could every day.

Perhaps coming so late in life to love had made it all the more precious; having lost it, only to find it again, doubly so.

That day she had shown up so unexpectedly at the marina he had resolved to love Sara Sidle the way she deserved to be loved: mind - body - heart - and soul. No more fear. No more holding back. And most definitely no more good intentions.

Ever since then, Grissom set out to make a concerted effort to be more here and present, particularly with her, to not allow himself to yet again get over-involved in his work. Something which he soon found proved far easier to do with Sara back beside him.

Sure, Sara was a horrible distraction. But then she always had been.

Despite that, she rendered the work easier, the load lighter, the days brighter.

Yes, it really was better than Grissom ever could have imagined it, spending their days and nights together.

So while Grissom might not have been all keen on returning to Vegas when Conrad Ecklie had called him in to advise on what became the Betton bombing case, when the subpoena for the Freeman trial came, he went willing with his wife.

Sara may not have said much about the case, she didn't need to. The way her jaw set and her eyes which had been bright mere moments before hardened into dark, told him all he needed to know.

Despite the summons coming at the height of shark research season, he hadn't questioned their needing to go, wouldn't have in any case, instead he only set to arranging to leave the _Ishmael_ in the project leader's more than capable hands and booking a flight for the three of them from SFO to McCarran.

Grissom and Sara had agreed, perhaps not in so many words, that there would be no more long distance this time; no more him one place, her another; no more days and nights spent apart. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it together.

Of course Hank hadn't exactly been thrilled about spending the day traveling in a crate, but a slight sedative, a few extra treats for good behavior and several generous belly rubs afterward and all was pretty much forgiven. The boxer seemed far too content to have his two humans happily back together again to mind much in any case.

For Grissom, his returning with Sara proved no real sacrifice at all, as at the end of the day, where he really wanted to be was anywhere with her.

If the last few years spent attempting to live without her had taught Grissom anything, it was that no amount or kind of work in the world could make up for simple pleasure of Sara's company.

At any rate it was only for a few weeks and then the two of them would see what the sea would bring.

Besides, Sara hadn't protested when he had mentioned his needing to go to Paris.

It had been at a fairly late breakfast Sara's first morning aboard, when not entirely sure how to best broach the subject, Grissom simply stammered it out all at once: "I... I have to be in Paris in a few weeks. Lecture. International Symposium on Marine Conservation."

To which all Sara could manage was a hesitant "Oh -" before asking, seriously struggling to keep her tone neutral, "How long?" as her heart had begun to hammer hard in her chest again.

"Two weeks."

She nodded. Sara supposed she could always use the time to tidy things up back in Vegas. _Paperwork. Paperwork. Paperwork_. There was always plenty of that. Plus, she really did need to pack up her apartment.

The time would crawl as it always did when they were apart, but he'd be back. This she knew.

Still, the idea of being separated again - and so soon -

Sara was so lost in her own musings that she almost didn't catch Grissom's "We can stop over in Vegas on our way over if you want.

"Give you a chance to pack properly this time."

" _We_?" she echoed, the only word she had managed to hear.

"Yeah. You didn't think I wanted - I guess I probably shouldn't have assumed - I just thought that -"

Then abruptly realizing what he probably should have started with, Grissom said in a voice rendered a little husky out of unaccustomed nervousness, "Come with me -"

Sara beamed with pleasure and relief at the invitation.

This didn't mean she was above teasing him about it.

"I don't know, Gil," she began. "You, me, autumn in Paris - You might have to persuade me."

One of his eyebrows went up at the inherent challenge. Grissom was tempted to ask _persuade you how_? only Sara had been unable to keep up the pretense any longer and laughed.

"Of course I'll come," she said. "Besides, I probably shouldn't leave you all on your own at a conference."

"Why not?" he asked.

"You might meet someone," said Sara ever matter of fact.

Instinctively getting where she might be going with this, Grissom replied with a knowing sort of smile, "You mean like San Francisco?"

"Yeah, like San Francisco."

And they both knew how _that_ had turned out.

Nor had Sara balked when Grissom had first mentioned that he and the boat were committed to a six-week survey and tagging project of one of the world's largest great white shark populations just off the coast of San Francisco.

Not being particularly selanchophobic, and this not actually the craziest of adventures Grissom had ever suggested, Sara simply shrugged her why not.

 _Sharks,_ she maintained, _were nothing after Vegas_.

So Grissom was content, more than content, to spend his morning with Hank in the park with his puzzle and his picture and the pleasure of thinking of his wife.

It may not have been what most people had in mind when they spoke of second honeymoons, but Grissom wasn't about to waste this second chance.

xxxxxxx

Unfortunately, Sara's day wasn't proving quite so peaceful.

She had to admit that being back at that lab after her two months away felt both familiar and foreign all at once. No wonder Grissom had been a bit overwhelmed on his return; he'd been away the better part of half a decade.

Of course she'd known it wasn't going to be a good day. She and the Deputy D.A. were scheduled to meet with the victim's parents. Sara had wanted Jan and Marty Freeman to see the photographs of their daughter's graffitied body for the first time in private and not in presence of the accused, judge, jury and attendant crowd. They deserved that dignity at the very least.

Though it hadn't proved any comfort. Sara honestly hadn't expected it to.

Ten months after their daughter's death and both parents were still having a hard time wrapping their heads around any of it.

As Sara escorted the stone-faced father and still teary-eyed mother out, Mrs. Freeman shook her head. "I don't know," she began. "What are you supposed to do? Keep you kids locked up so nobody can -

"I mean at some point you have to trust them to make good choices," Jan Freeman insisted. "And then just be there when they don't."

"Your daughter didn't chose this," Sara said gently. Then her voice hardened. "Those boys did."

Marty Freeman sighed resignedly, "When I was in school, jocks were gods. They could have gotten away with murder. And they will -"

Sara's tone and gaze turned steely. "Not yet they haven't."

 _And they won't,_ she swore to herself.

Half her heart and thoughts were still with the hapless Freemans, when Sara returned to layout room to finish up the last of the preliminary evidence review with Andrea Yeager.

Only when she arrived, Sara found the look the attorney gave her even graver.

When the D.A. pulled another photo from her files, it was of the last face Sara had ever expected to see.

xxxxxxx

It was late by the time Sara finally managed to make it home. With a weary sigh, she mechanically dropped both her keys and her messenger bag onto the kitchen counter.

She momentarily brightened as Hank sauntered up to greet her. With only just a barely forced grin, she stroked him behind the ears and indulged him in a brief belly rub. Her husband, however, apparently was nowhere to be found, even though he had to be home as the car, she knew, was currently parked in the lot below.

Hearing the commotion in the kitchen, he called "Sara?" from the bedroom.

"You expecting someone else?" she asked as she opened the bedroom door to find Grissom perched on the edge of the bed busy folding clothes of all things.

"Hardly," he replied as she leaned in to place a kiss on the top of his head.

Grissom glanced down at his watch, startled to find it well after seven. He must have lost track of time while out with Eli that afternoon. He had been certain there would have been plenty of time to finish the laundry before Sara called for him to take her home.

Only he couldn't recall having heard the phone ring. He drew out his cell, suddenly worried he had somehow missed her call. But no, there was no message apart from her brief earlier rather cryptic text of _Will be late. Sorry._

"Andrea gave me a ride home," Sara supplied.

"I would have come to get you."

"I know." Sara's smile began to falter. "We had some things to discuss."

"That sounds ominous," Grissom observed.

Sara shrugged.

"Tea?" he suggested.

Tea sounded perfect right about now. "I'll get it," she offered. "You finish up here," she said indicating the nearly empty laundry basket.

"You sure?" Grissom certainly didn't look it.

Sara gave him her best attempt at an encouraging nod and sidled off to the kitchen.

She had filled the kettle, placed it on the burner, gotten down two mugs and unearthed two tea bags from a canister on the rear counter before she finally spotted it: a bit of bark decked out with a slight rug of spag moss, all speckled a vibrant violet with some of the tiniest orchids Sara had ever seen.

That she had initially missed it came as no real surprise. The entire arrangement could easily fit in the palm of her hand.

As she bent to get a better look at the minuscule blossoms, her nose wrinkled as she caught a whiff of something she didn't expect. Orchids, as a rule, seldom had any scent, but these ones did.

"They're supposed to smell," Grissom piped up behind her. "Hence its scientific and common names: _Schoenorchis fragrans_ or fragrant Schoenorchis."

At this, Sara started, her husband having yet again managed to sneak up behind her.

 _Perhaps it really was time for that bell_ , she silently rued.

"You could find them all over in Chiang Mai. Made me think of you. The orchid hunter," he teased, using one of the monikers she had been dubbed with back in the camp where they had worked together in in Costa Rica, Sara's years of experiencing spotting the tiniest fragments of trace having proved handy for far more pleasant purposes out in the rainforest.

"Of course I couldn't bring any back then. Customs and import rules being what they are," Grissom shrugged. "So when I saw some at the florist I couldn't resist."

Sara did however resist asking him what he was doing in a florist's in the first place.

"It just seemed strange," he said quietly by way of actual explanation, "you without your vegetation."

Her apartment certainly lacked that.

After the divorce, once Sara had moved out of the house and went back to working even more obscene hours than usual, plants proved unpractical.

Initially, she had passed off her need to find homes for her small collection of greenery with the excuse she was currently so busy she had begun to forget to water them. But mostly they had been an all m too painful of a reminder of the life she had so recently lost.

Thankfully, Barbara Russell had been more than happy to take them off her hands and without the asking of too many questions. But then Russell's wife had always been like that, at least in the times she and Sara had occasion to meet.

"And I know just the place for it on the boat," Grissom was adding cheerily.

"What's the occasion?" Sara asked, touched beyond words at the gesture.

"Does there need to be one?"

"There usually is one with you."

 _True._

As she patiently waited for his reply, she picked up the small envelope propped up beside the plant and pulled out the card. Of course there was a card.

And of course it said what it always said. Not all traditions were bad.

Despite the day, Sara smiled.

Noticing this, Grissom said, "That's why."

Then he began in that knowing tone that signaled the start of one of his many quotations: "'But just to keep alive is not enough. To live you must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower to love.'"

When Sara didn't recognize the speaker he supplied, "Hans Christian Andersen."

"They are beautiful. Thank you."

When her smile swiftly faded, he asked, "Honey, what is it?"

Her lips twitched at the endearment.

She might as well tell him now. He would hear about it soon enough.

"They know," Sara said simply.

Grissom didn't ask the obvious _Who knows what?_ He merely waited for her to get it out.

"You know Mark Ellington - the big shot defense attorney -"

He did. Ellington had been a royal pain in the ass even during Grissom's day.

"Somehow he managed to track down my mother's case file."

xxxxxxx

"I assume she's your mother," Andrea Yeager had said indicating the now thirty-one year old booking photo of one Laura Sidle.

Sara didn't see the point in denying it.

"Yeah."

Nor did she see the need to ask where Andrea had gotten it. Mark Ellington was known for playing dirty. Real dirty. He certainly had the winning record - and the six figure paychecks - to prove it.

"Came over slipped into part of the defense discovery," Yeager offered anyway. "A threat?" she asked.

"Definitely."

"You do know where he's going with this don't you?"

Sadly, Sara did.

Though it broke her heart to do it, Sara offered, "I can hand the case over to another C.S.I. if that's what you want. They won't be able to testify to the actual evidence collection, but the detective can do that.

"As for presenting the tests and results to the court, Morgan would be my best suggestion. She knows the protocols as well as anyone.

"And you'll definitely want a woman to do it."

"I want _you_ to do it," Andrea countered. "Ellington wants you to quit. You're too good. Your evidence is too good.

"And he knows it.

"Besides, I refuse to be cowed by the likes of that slime bag."

Sara had the sneaky suspicion Andrea probably had another name for Ellington, one definitely not suitable for work.

"Sara," Yeager was saying, "I stand by your work. The district attorney stands by your work. And I know the sheriff does.

"I... I just didn't want you to get surprised on the stand."

So for the next four hours, the two of them discussed how to deal with whatever bullshit Mark Ellington might attempt to fling at them. It was exhausting, disheartening, frustrating, but equally necessary work, this Sara knew.

They were still at it when Andrea offered to give her a ride home.

It wasn't until Yeager had put the car into park outside Sara's apartment, that she said, indicating the thick stack of file folders in Sara's lap, "Don't bother with those tonight. Worry about the case tomorrow - well not tomorrow - wait until Friday. Tomorrow's Thanksgiving. Eat Tofurkey, or whatever it is you vegetarians eat instead of turkey."

 _Chinese take-out_ , Sara thought, but did not say.

"Enjoy the time with that husband of yours."

While Andrea had never met Dr. Gil Grissom, having joined the District Attorney's office a few years after Grissom had left the Las Vegas Crime Lab, she had certainly heard of him even before she had started asking around after Sara had mentioned him in passing that Monday during their initial meeting.

Interesting guy from what she had readily discovered. A veritable legend in the field up until he retired to do what she didn't exactly know. It was rumored to have something to do with a boat, but Andrea hadn't managed to summon up the courage - or perhaps the nosiness - to ask Sara.

Sara, for her part, couldn't help but smirk. Yeager's little talk sounded an awfully lot like one of her husband's old _Sara needs to get a life outside of work_ speeches from back before they had finally gotten together. So much so she had to choke back her smart-ass _Yes, boss_ comeback.

"I'm in Boston until late Sunday night," Andrea reminded her as Sara got out of the car. "Dinner with the family. Fun, fun, fun."

Gamely, Sara wished her luck with that, grateful that she wouldn't have to face her own mother-in-law until Friday and thankfully, that was just for a single meal.

It wasn't that Sara disliked Betty Grissom. Once the two of them had cleared the air a bit about the nature of Sara's relationship with her son all those years ago, mother and daughter-in-law had managed for the most part, to get along just fine.

That didn't mean that Sara didn't find Betty still to be intimidating as hell.

Plus, her sign language had after far too many years of lack of use actually devolved into somewhere near the level of field mouse.

At least her husband was sure to be there this time. Good thing too as neither of them had yet broken the whole _We got married_ news to her yet.

"Oh and Sara -" Yeager called through her open driver's side window. "Don't worry. We're going to get them."

Yes, they certainly would, if Sara had anything to say about it.

xxxxxxx

"I guess I'm more surprised it hasn't come out before," Sara was saying as she and Grissom sat on her sofa sipping tea. "Only it will be Megan who ends up paying for it."

" _When the defense can't attack the evidence -_ " Grissom began sagely.

" _They go after the people who collect the evidence_ ," she finished sadly. "Criminal Defense 101. Yeah, I know."

"He's desperate."

"He's smart," Sara countered. "It will play to the jury: me as an overzealous vigilante on a witch hunt that ended up ensnarling two innocent boys in a vain attempt to enact some sick sort of revenge for how her own life was ruined."

"Ridiculous."

"Maybe, but it _will_ play to the jury. And Ellington knows it.

"He doesn't have to prove the boys didn't do it, just suggest there's reasonable doubt.

"My mother's mental history gives them that doubt. After all, like mother like daughter."

"So what are you going to do?" Grissom asked.

"Testify just as before. I have to," Sara said. "Finn and I were the only ones who physically worked that case. Since his son had ties to the team, Russell had to recuse himself and everyone else was busy out on other cases. With Finn dead, that just leaves me.

"And someone has to speak for Megan Freeman."

Ellington could attempt to drag Sara through the mud if he wanted to, but there was no way in hell Sara was going to let him do that to Megan, not in front of a jury. The girl had already been let down enough as it was.

Grissom nodded, thinking as he did so how he had meant what he had told Heather Kessler back in that interrogation room the September before: Sara really did restore his faith in the human being.

Sara set down her cup. She seemed to be steeling herself to say something.

"I'm... I'm going to tell the rest of the team at breakfast on Saturday. I... I'd rather they hear it all from me and not from Mark Ellington."

"You sure?" Came Grissom's concerned query.

To which Sara replied with a resigned sigh, "Yeah. It's time anyway. Probably long past time."

However Sara may have finally made peace with her mother, that didn't mean she wanted the whole world to know what had happened that night so long ago now.

Except now that her past was about to be part of a very public record whether she liked it or not, about the only thing she could control was who knew when.

Sara told herself she hadn't said anything to her coworkers and friends because she didn't want them to suddenly look at her - treat her - any differently. She had had enough of that when she was growing up, her turning into the girl whose mother murdered her father. She hadn't wanted that at the lab, too: the looks - the whispers.

But then Grissom hadn't treated her any differently once she had told him the truth all those years ago. At least not bad differently. He'd simply stayed and dared to love her anyway.

Though Sara had to suppose her continued silence on the subject was based on more than that. That sense that if she could keep it secret, keep it all under lock and key, it could be like it never happened. Or at least she could pretend it didn't matter. The past could be past, gone, done, over with and she didn't have to be that twelve-year-old girl ever again.

So much for that.

Of course her mother wouldn't be the only thing the defense would use to call Sara's qualifications into question. She and Andrea had discussed this, too, and at length.

Only Sara didn't mention to her husband that her recent, precipitous departure from the lab would likely come up as a point against her. That she had left the field permanently and why. That it wasn't the first time.

There would be accusations of burn out, which would further bring her capabilities under scrutiny. It didn't matter that her going had been far more a matter of the heart than the head.

Sara knew all this, was prepared for it. She certainly didn't regret her choice. Not for a minute. Though perhaps she should have made it a lot sooner.

But the defense didn't need to know that. In any case, Sara was not about to let Mark Ellington turn her life with Grissom into something sordid or condemnable however hard he might try.

No, she didn't tell her husband this. He would only worry and she didn't need him to worry - or be concerned.

There was something she did need though.

"You'll... You'll come to court?" she asked.

It would be good to have him there in the gallery, to know she had someone out there on her side no matter what.

Without hesitation Grissom replied, "Of course."

"Thanks," she said and meant it. "And for the flowers."

"My pleasure."

It did indeed appear as if it really was.

That is until Sara said, "Just don't think that either of those things get you out of having to be the bearer of good news."

When Grissom shot her a bemused _What good news look?_ she took up his left hand, the one displaying his recently replaced wedding ring.

"Ah, that good news," he grinned. Although he thought more of it as _great news_.

"So what do you think?" she asked. "Should we lead off with the good news or the bad?"

Grissom was heartened to hear that his wife did sound slightly more cheered when she asked this.

xxxxxxx

Sara was replacing the last of her freshly laundered underwear into her top dresser drawer when her fingers brushed along something solid in the very back.

With a slight smile, she carefully unearthed the small butterfly shaped puzzle box, the one Grissom had given her as a Christmas gift that holiday they'd spent in Costa Rica nearly seven years before.

She'd almost forgotten that was where she had opted to secret it, instead of packing it up with most of the rest of her things when she had moved out of her and Grissom's Vegas home. With a pang, she realized she hadn't once taken it out since.

Filled with a hundred different and conflicting emotions all at once, she held it for a moment before locating the push button key.

The box fell open in her hands to reveal several photographs atop an amber pendant, the one Grissom had also once given her.

Setting the box on the dresser, she selected the topmost photo, lingered over it.

Worn and well thumbed, it was obviously equally well loved. One of Grissom and Hank curled up together asleep on the couch. Hank's head in Grissom's lap; Grissom with a book half-propped open and his reading glasses perched precariously on the very tip of his nose.

For a long time, the photo had sat in pride of place on her bedside table.

As her and Grissom's times together gradually grew fewer and far more far between during their years apart, Sara had taken to carrying it with her in her bag, needing the comfort, hence its present wear about the edges.

"I've never understood what it was with you and that picture," Grissom said, coming up behind her.

Sara smoothed it fondly.

It was simple really.

"It's home," she said.

"It's good to be home," Grissom agreed.


	2. Two: American Graffiti

**Two: American Graffiti**

The post pancake dinner dishes done, Grissom and Sara opted to spend the few hours left before bed curled up on the couch together. Hank, too, readily agreed, having insisted on taking his usual place at their feet.

While her husband quietly made his way through a trade paperback, Sara attempted to thumb her way through a couple of back issues of _The Journal of Forensic Sciences_ , her usual go-to _use work to get her mind off work_ technique.

Failing at this, she was in the midst of weighing whether or not she should just get up and pack a few more boxes when without a word, Gil Grissom nudged the neat stack of file folders towards his wife before rising to fill the teakettle in the kitchen.

Grissom hadn't asked about the papers or the case; Sara hadn't offered. Not that she didn't trust her husband with the work. Even nearly seven years retired from the field, Gil Grissom had a better grasp of forensics than anyone Sara knew.

Part of her had just wanted to keep the case's steep shadow from creeping into their new life together.

Far more intent on focusing on this life, the one she and her husband were currently working to build together, as she was, Sara for the most part, tried to put her Vegas life behind her these days.

Or at least the work.

So even after the subpoena arrived, Sara hadn't offered many details about the case which had brought them both back to Vegas. At her uneasy resignation, Grissom had opted not to press.

Considering the job (which he knew all too well) and Sara's natural reticence, Grissom was well aware his wife hadn't even come close to telling him everything that had happened over their last few years apart. He equally knew that his wife would talk about it when she was ready. Until then he would wait until she was.

By the time he placed a steaming mug in front of her, Sara was halfway through the first file. Sinking back down beside her, Grissom went back to his book.

As the evening wore on, he kept her company, refilled her tea, sat there with her, yet not interfering with her wearying work.

While she found she didn't really want to talk about it, neither could Sara banish the images of Megan Freeman's naked body tattooed in indelible ink, graffitied with all the worst words the English language held for women. That and the fact that the two boys who did that to her thought it was okay. Not only okay, but an act to brag about, to publish to the wide world.

Just the thought made her blood rage and her heart break.

It didn't help, her having to wade through the defense's usual discovery bullshit.

When Grissom refilled her cup unasked for the third time, Sara dragged her attention away from her pages. Giving him a grateful smile, she settled back into the cushions with a long drawn out exhale of frustration.

"That good, huh?" Grissom asked, not bothering to crack his book back open.

"Am still trying to work out how it could be worse."

"'And worse I may be yet. The worst is not so long as we can say "This is the worst,"'" he quoted sagely.

At her frown, he added, "Not helping?"

 _Right in one,_ Sara thought, but did not say.

Not really wanting to discuss the source of her own current vexation, she opted for a change in subject.

Indicating the volume in his lap, she hazarded to ask, "How's the book?"

With some people it was always best never to ask questions which you didn't already know the answer to, particularly as said answers frequently proved to be like the proverbial box of chocolates: you never knew what you were going to get. This proved particularly true when one was married to a man with insatiable curiosity and rather eclectic tastes.

One night, not long after they'd first been married, Sara had made the mistake of when upon coming to bed of asking after what her recently wedded husband was so intently perusing only to be informed, "The mating habits of _Riccardoella limacum_."

To which she could only spluttered, " _Excuse me_?"

Without batting an eye, he clarified, "Slug mite sex."

"I had to ask," she sighed.

What else could she have said to that?

His current paperback, _The Life of Pi_ by Yan Martel, didn't appear nearly so exotic, the tiger huddled on one of the boats on the cover not withstanding. So she figured on the whole the question was a relatively safe one.

"Interesting," he replied, replacing his reading glasses though he didn't return to his book.

"Good interesting or bad interesting?" Sara asked.

"Tigers are always good interesting."

Sara chuckled at this, recalling as she did Grissom's particular fondness for a tiger named Hobbes.

"Particularly when tigers aren't just tigers," he added.

Sara, trying and failing to work that one out, perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or just her brain on information overload, decided to let that one go - for now.

"You'll have to let me borrow it when you're done," she said.

"My books are your books."

"Anything good I should know?" she asked, not searching for spoilers, as he well knew.

Typically, Grissom was in the habit of reading aloud particularly good bits in his books. That night, sensing Sara's dudgeon, he had elected to refrain from doing so as not to interfere with her work.

He dutifully flipped back several chapters before setting in to read:

"'It is true that those we meet can change us sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same afterwards...'"

"True," Sara agreed.

They shared a smile at this.

Then just noticing the lateness of the hour, she said, "You don't have to wait up, you know."

"I know," he replied. "I like reading with you."

It being a pleasure of the rather recently reacquired variety, it wasn't one Gil Grissom was all that keen on soon surrendering. Not after missing it - and her - for the past several years.

Not that Hank hadn't been good company. Sara was just better.

Thus they both went back to their pages.

After a while when Grissom's eyes began to grow heavy and his head began to nod, Sara, gently nudging him, urged, "Bed, Gil."

"I'm fine."

"You're half asleep -"

"I'd rather think of it as being half awake," he countered.

"You'll be stiff in the morning," she reminded him.

"I'm good here," he insisted.

Both far too fatigued to fight him and enjoying his presence far too much to protest, she simply shook her head at his stubbornness.

"What about you?" he asked.

After all, she had admitted rather reluctantly not all that many weeks before how it had become harder and harder for her these days to stay up anywhere near three nights straight.

He hadn't been able to resist teasing her about her _Getting old_ then.

Of course Sara had given as much as she got, rejoining with an equally playful taunt of "Remember I'm not that much older than you were when we first met.

"Besides, if I'm _getting_ old, what does that make you, _Gilbert_?"

Grissom opted not to remind her of this tonight. His wife, he knew, wasn't up for banter.

Sara gestured to the still daunting stack. "Just need to get through this."

So he left her to it.

Currently half awake, or no, all too soon Grissom was softly snoring, just as his wife suspected he would be. She really should wake him; prod him off to bed, only Sara didn't have the heart to disturb him.

Strangely, he did look comfortable. Very comfortable. Temptingly comfortable.

But as tempting as it might be to cozy up with him on the couch, then they'd both be sore in the morning. No, bed was better.

Finally having decided she'd had enough defense discovery for one night, Sara replaced his novel on the coffee table and gently eased off his spectacles before leaning in to lightly kiss him awake.

Before long, his hand was in her hair and his lips returning her pressure.

When Sara withdrew, his languid eyes crinkled with pleasure, him apparently not the least bit upset as to having been woken, particularly in that particular fashion.

"Bed, Gil," she murmured huskily.

Grissom sleepily, yet readily, agreed.

xxxxxxx

Some time just passed two, Sara screamed herself - and Grissom - awake.

Heart thudding, lungs gasping, shoulders shaking, she sat bolt upright wide-eyed in the dark.

Still struggling to throw off the last of her horror, she momentarily recoiled at her husband's tender touch before letting him gather her up in his arms.

Grissom didn't have to ask. He already knew.

The difficult cases always brought on the nightmares and this case he knew had been troubling Sara more than most.

He knew, too, that the best thing - the only thing - to be done was to hold her close. So he did, silently stroking her hair and back.

Trying to pour part of the peace she had long given him back into her, he rocked her gently as she clung sobbing into his shoulder. He didn't tell her to shush, or not to cry, nor murmured that falsest of platitudes that _everything was going to be okay_.

Instead, all he said was "I'm here. Honey, I'm here."

Too many times, he hadn't been. But he was now.

 _Take care of each other_ , the old Tico _abogado_ had told them the first time they had been married. Somehow amongst the busyness of life, he had forgotten the wisdom of those words.

He wasn't about to forget them now. Or ever again. That mistake had already proven costly, nearly too costly for him to ever dare repeat. He may have failed Sara for a long time, too long, but not again. He intended to do as advised: care for his wife.

Perhaps he should have told her a long time ago that it was okay to fall to pieces, that he would be there to gather them - and her - back up again. But he hadn't told her then, nor could he quite find the words for it now. So he held her hard until Sara felt like she could finally breathe again.

Yes, Grissom definitely understood. He didn't suffer from nightmares, not the way Sara did, at least not since she'd come. Although like her, chronic insomnia had long been his nighttime nemesis.

Before Sara had returned, the only dreams he ever had of her post-divorce were nightmares, one of which was of her being back out there in the desert. Only in this dream he never found her. No matter how hard or how long he looked, she stayed lost and he was left to wake with her name on his lips to the reality of her being gone from his life.

While Sara had spent most of the last two months unbruised by sleep, tonight hadn't been her first nightmare since they had gotten back together, even if it did appear to be the worst of them.

They may have been fewer and farther in between as of late, but both Grissom and Sara knew the horrors would never completely vanish. Being out on the water, the rock and splash of the waves might change one's dreams, but even that couldn't keep the mind's twisted mischief at bay.

Nightmares were far, far more than just bad dreams. He supposed they were more the cruel machinations of a troubled soul. Sara was simply more troubled than most. And no wonder.

Usually on nights such as these, Sara cried herself out and nearly back to sleep; Grissom held her, wordlessly assuring her she was safe and loved. Frequently, it wasn't long before they were both back asleep again, at least for a little while.

Tonight wasn't that sort of night, or this that sort of dream.

After a long while, Sara stilled, her tightfisted grasp relaxed. Her eyes still a little wet, she peered up apologetically at her husband. Grissom leaned in to kiss the last of her tears from her cheeks.

They rested there, foreheads touching, until Sara said now far more chagrined than anything, "I got snot all over your shirt."

"It washes out," he simply said.

She half-hiccupped; half-laughed at this.

"Tea?" Grissom offered.

Sara nodded, wanting the chance to privately pull herself together more than the actual contents of the cup.

As her husband disappeared off to the kitchen, she padded off to the bathroom and without bothering to switch on the overhead light, proceeded to splash cold water on her face. Her heart might no longer be hammering that frenetic tattoo in her chest, but she still wasn't ready to meet her own eyes in the mirror just yet.

When she finally did return to bed, it was to find her husband already propped up on the pillows, casually stroking Hank's back and looking far too awake for the hour.

Without comment, he passed her one of the steaming cups from his bedside table. They sipped at their tea in companionable silence for a little while.

Sensing Sara's disquiet, Hank transferred his attention from master to mistress, lightly nudging her hand with his muzzle so he might, now that she too was settled sitting up, rest his head in her lap. Sara let him, absently rubbing him behind the ears, as much to soothe herself as the boxer.

Her tea mostly drunk, Grissom decided to confront the elephant in the room.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked.

"The dream?" Sara asked. "No."

Not when flashes of it still haunted her waking moments.

The yelling. The screaming.

Worse: the silence.

Blood, blood everywhere.

 _Yet here's a spot..._

Except it wasn't her twelve-year-old hands held out before her, but her now more than forty ones stained crimson.

 _Here's the smell of the blood still._

From somewhere - but where? - She could hear water running, running, running.

Water, water everywhere but not a drop to wash with.

 _What, will these hands ne'er be clean?_

No, not all the perfumes of Arabia could help her now.

 _Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him_.

Only when Sara finally turned to face her father, it wasn't his marble gaze that met her own. Nor was she back in her nightmare of a childhood home.

Instead, the naked body of a seventeen year old girl sprawled on the tile floor tattooed all over with words too foul to mention.

Back in her bedroom, Sara set her teacup down on the table beside her.

No, she most certainly did not want to talk about her dream.

Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth had nothing on Sara's subconscious.

"But the case," she said turning to her husband, "yeah."

xxxxxxx

"Victim's name was Megan Freeman," Sara began. "Seventeen. Freshman WLVU. Graduated a semester early from high school so she elected to start at the school in January. Bio/Pre-Med major. Already taking advanced courses. A bit of an overachiever."

Grissom smiled softly. Like someone else he knew, he thought.

"More smart than pretty or popular," she continued. "Her roommate figured she was probably still a virgin. No real boyfriends in high school. Said the boys weren't interested."

 _Boys that age were idiots_ , Grissom thought. Some of them never seemed to grow out of it. It had certainly taken him far, far too long.

"From her Facebook posts and what her parents knew, Megan was excited to be at college. To try new things. Meet new people.

"And she was a huge basketball fan. _Huge._ That was part of the reason she selected WLVU in the first place, because of the team.

"First home game of the new year, she and a bunch of other girls were invited by a few of the players to this big celebratory party off campus.

"Just two weeks into her first semester and a couple of basketball gods were giving her attention, it must have seemed like her lucky day. How was she to know the senior players got the juniors to ask as many pretty girls as they could find, wanted the house stocked full. Plenty of choice that way, I guess.

"Sports really weren't my scene," Sara shrugged.

They hadn't been Grissom's either, apart from pro baseball. But they both already knew this.

"So, anyway, Megan went back to her dorm. Put on a new outfit. We found the tags in her trash. Tight jeans, push-up bra, low cut top. Not what she regularly wore, but the usual party wear. She probably just wanted to fit in."

Most people did. One of the most human of all impulses was to belong.

"She posted a selfie of herself all done up for her first real college party at 10:08.

"We know from various Social Media posts from others at the party that she got there sometime before 10:45. After that, we found her in the background of a few pics, doing what girls do at parties like that."

"Drinking," Grissom supplied.

Sara nodded.

"Megan weighed one ten, maybe. So it wouldn't have taken much to go from buzzed to drunk. Not with the punch they were serving. The stuff must have been near 180 proof judging from the residue we found in some of the cups.

"Plus, her stomach contents, or lack there of, indicated she probably hadn't eaten anything since around lunch time.

"On an empty stomach, all that liquor went straight to her head.

"No one remembers, or admits they remember seeing Megan at the party. Not even the girls from the game. So what happened next is mostly conjecture.

"At some point during the night two guys took her up to one of the bedrooms. She may have gone willingly, but considering her B.A.C. was still above the legal limit hours after she left the party, I doubt she was thinking clearly, if at all, at the time.

"That and one of the guys slipped her a Rohypnol chaser as an insurance policy."

"She was roofied?" Grissom asked appalled.

Sara nodded. "GCMS indicated the presence of 7-aminoflunitrazepam, a metabolite of flunitrazepam - Rohypnol, at concentrations of more than 80 micrograms per liter. Nearly twice the usual impairment level.

"She couldn't have said no if she wanted to.

"You can't consent when you're passed out.

"Once there they stripped her. We found her ripped panties in the trash. And several buttons were missing from her blouse. So maybe she had a chance to fight back. Though the only DNA under her fingernails was her own.

"Then at some point, the two guys decided they needed to make sure Megan knew what they really thought of her. So they tattooed her in Sharpie.

"Sharpie?" Grissom echoed in disbelief.

"Sharpie," Sara nodded. "With words like _bitch, whore, tease, nf2f_..."

"Nf2f?" Grissom asked.

"Not fit to..."

From his frown of disgust, Sara didn't need to finish.

"Once they'd finished their _masterpiece_ , they proceeded to post pictures on Snapchat all under the caption _Bitch was beggin' for it_."

Sara stopped, needing a moment to contain her anger and outrage before she continued.

"Whether it was before or after their little photo shoot we don't know, but apparently the boys thought it would be even more fun to go ahead and object rape her with a used beer bottle.

"Guess they'd seen enough T.V. to know better than to engage in personal sexual contact, even with a condom. They certainly knew to wipe their fingerprints from the glass."

"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing," Grissom offered. "Too many people watch way too much television and start to think they can outthink the evidence."

"Only the evidence never lies," Sara replied. "PERK was negative for sperm or spermicide," she continued. "No condom trace evidence either. But definite signs of abuse. Both bruising and tearing.

"I did the exam myself."

Both Doc Robbins and Dave had left her to it. Even they had looked a little sick at the sight of Megan's body lying there on the slab inked all over.

Nor had either made any protest when after they had completed a far more subdued than usual post, Sara insisted on cleaning the graffiti from Megan's body herself.

It didn't matter that the tedious, heart-rending cleanup was far more the work of an undertaker than a forensic investigator, no parent should have to see their daughter written on like that.

Sara shook her head, trying to erase the image of the word _cunt_ scribbled just above Megan Freeman's pubic bone.

"She didn't have a clue, when she finally came to. What happened to her," Sara said softly. "Maybe that's one good thing."

"Anterograde amnesia," Grissom supplied, knowing it to be one of the side effects of this particular date rape drug.

"Probably felt fairly woozy, confused," Sara said. "Definitely hung over. Sore. Sick to her stomach."

All also side effects of being roofied, apart from the sore part.

"Somehow Megan made it back to her dorm sometime before 3 a.m.

"That's when she was found, just after three.

"Back in her room, she must have checked her phone before going to bed. We found a chat window open. One of the girls on the floor had messaged her, wanted to know if the girl in the attached screen captures was her.

"Those pictures were the last thing she ever pulled up.

"I can't begin to imagine what she must have been thinking when she took off her clothes to check. We know she did. Found her party clothes in a heap on the floor and a crack in her mirror that wasn't there earlier that night. She must have grabbed her robe and raced to the shower.

"There she tried to scrub it all away. Water was turned up as hot as it would go. Maybe she didn't know soap and water doesn't work on Sharpie.

"You need hand sanitizer or hairspray to have any hope of getting it to come off. Maybe she was just desperate; just wanted it off.

"But not _all the perfumes of Arabia_..." Sara half quoted.

"When her fingernails didn't seem to make any difference, she tried to scrape it off.

"You can still cut yourself with a safety razor, particularly if you're determined. Only when that didn't work -

"It's unsure if she broke her pocket mirror on accident or on purpose. All we do know for sure is she used it to slice herself from wrist to elbow on both arms.

"She knew what she was doing," Sara finished.

"Death by exsanguination?" Grissom asked, his voice soft and sad with the shock of it.

"You'd think that, but no," she said. "Doc says drowning. Found water in her lungs.

"She must have passed out, either from the shock, the alcohol, the drugs, the blood loss - any - all of it.

"When she collapsed her body blocked the drain. With the water still running..."

"She drowned in only a few inches of water," Grissom finished.

Sara nodded. "That's how we found her. Although someone had turned off the water before we got there.

"A girl on her floor stumbled in to... to be sick. Too much fun, I guess. Too much alcohol at least. When she ended up with wet knees, she was pissed. Pounded on the shower stall.

"The lock must have been faulty as the girl ended up with a really good look at Megan sprawled across the floor.

"She puked all over my shoes while I was interviewing her," Sara finished.

Not that she could blame the freshman. The sight of the naked wisp of a seventeen year old slumped on the tile with all those words scrawled across her skin, had left Sara, a seasoned crime scene investigator, more than a little nauseated herself.

The two perpetrators, Sara refused to think of them as _the accused_ , however, made her blood boil. Cocky, self-important jocks, the both of them, with _Big Man on Campus_ written all over them. Two guys who thought that their success on the court entitled them to take what they wanted - when they wanted - how they wanted. Even if it wasn't freely given.

Sara hated the whole BMOC bullshit. She'd made the mistake in college of giving into a guy like that once, but however ultimately unsatisfying the entire encounter had been, at least theirs had been consensual, definitely overrated, but still consensual.

Only in this case, the guys didn't just think that drugging and raping a girl at a party was okay. That on top of defiling and defacing her in private, publicly degrading her was not only perfectly acceptable, it was something to boast about. They were proud to present to the world a record of what they'd done.

They weren't quite so proud by the time she and Julie Finn had gotten Justin Baker and Jimmy Roberts into an interrogation room at Las Vegas Metro. They hadn't dared brag there.

Initially, they had pleaded ignorance. Sure, they were at the party, so were more than a hundred other people. Jimmy's parents had a great big place out near the Tournament Players Club in Summerlin. So what?

"A hundred and seven, if social media is to believed," Sara informed them.

It had taken her and Finn nearly a week to track down every individual in the party pics and swab them.

Sara, consulting the sheet in front of her, said, "Forty-eight of them males, thirteen of them from the WLVU basketball team."

"Yeah, a couple of guys from the team couldn't make it," Baker agreed.

"Well, only the two of you were a DNA match."

"Match to what? Neither of us had sex with anyone at that party," Roberts protested.

"I never said we found semen. I said DNA," Sara countered.

"We found the bottle," Finn told them. "With Megan Freeman's vaginal fluid on the rim. And an admixture of both of your DNA inside."

Of course neither she nor Sara told the boys they had had to swab and process over a hundred bottles from the Roberts' trash before they had managed to find anything.

"Guess you two had to share a beer before you raped her," said Sara.

"A little Dutch courage?" Finn suggested equally coldly.

When the boys couldn't work out how they possibly could have found any DNA to link them to Freeman, Sara supplied, "You forgot about the backwash. Bottle may have looked empty, but there's always a thin layer of saliva left behind on the inside.

"PCR is a wonderful thing. Amplifies even the most minuscule amount of DNA. All you need is a microdrop."

"That match got us a warrant to check your rooms," said Finn providing them with a copy.

"Which was where we found these, Jimmy," Sara said placing an evidence bag full of little round white pills on the table before them.

Jimmy Roberts shrugged. "They're just herbal supplements."

"Herbal supplements you just happened to pick up when you were in Mexico for Christmas?" Finn asked. "Those sorts of pills turn out to be pretty easy to come by down there, don't they - for the right price."

Roberts made no reply to this.

Sara pulled a second sheet from her file folder. "Chemistry says they're flunitrazepam."

"Rohypnol - roofies to you," Finn translated helpfully.

"And a schedule IV substance. Possession of which in the United States is punishable by three years in jail and a fine." Sara gave the bag a little shake. "This many pills could easily be argued as possession with intent to distribute. That alone will get you 20 years.

"As for the rape, you two are aware that subjecting an unconscious victim to sexual penetration of any kind qualifies as rape in the state of Nevada? And that it carries a maximum sentence of life in prison?" Sara asked.

From their sudden shocked stares, apparently they hadn't been aware.

"So," Sara continued, "while Justin here might be eligible for parole after fifteen years, Jimmy, you're going to be lucky to make it out before you hit retirement age."

Jimmy Roberts scoffed. Gesturing to his friend, he said, "Look at us. We rule that team. We rule that school. You think either of us needed to roofie someone in order to get laid? We could have had any girl at that party. All we had to do was ask."

At this, Sara had a hard time keeping the bitterness from her voice as she countered, "Except consensual sex wasn't what you went for that night. Wasn't enough of a thrill for you, right?

"That and Megan Freeman was Nf2f?"

She placed a photograph, a close-up of the words scribbled on Megan's skin, on the table.

"You wrote it right on her."

Of course when Jimmy Roberts' parents hired Mark Ellington, the eminent defense attorney argued before the judge at the pretrial hearing that the boys were young, had their whole lives ahead of them. Even if somehow they were convicted, and of course that was a big if Ellington maintained, society shouldn't allow this one isolated incident to ruin the rest of their lives.

They were just boys being boys after all.

Naturally, Ellington had conveniently forgotten to mention Megan who no longer had a life because of what his clients had chosen to do.

Seventeen years old and her life really was over.

Only when the case finally came to court, he wouldn't forget Megan then. Ellington would make sure that it was Megan Freeman on trial instead of Roberts and Baker. He would offer up every last detail of Megan's all too brief life for public judgment and scrutiny as if to say, _Look, the girl was asking for what she got, just like the caption to the photos said._

Rape was the only crime Sara knew where the victim was the one presumed guilty until proven innocent.

No one ever said of a car accident victim: _Maybe you shouldn't have been in such a hurry_. Or to someone who had been mugged: _Maybe you should have left that expensive watch at home_. To a family that had been burgled no one ever told them: _Maybe you shouldn't have so many expensive electronics visible through your front windows._

But a woman who goes out in a short skirt, tight jeans or wears a low cut blouse, she's asking to be raped. As if her permission is implied by the clothing she wears or the places she frequents or the drinks she consumes and words like _No_ and _Stop_ don't matter.

To Sara what the woman wore, what the woman drank, where the woman went, whom the woman went with, not one of those things mattered the minute that woman said _No_.

 _No_ meant _No_. And _Stop_ meant _Stop Now_.

Drugged as she was, Megan Freeman didn't even get the right to refuse. Those boys took that, too, away from her.

As Sara finished telling him all this, Grissom didn't bother to ask why Megan didn't just tell someone. Sadly, he already knew.

The numbers didn't lie. Sixty to seventy percent of all rapes went unreported and no wonder. Out of a hundred cases, of those forty reported, only 10 reports ever led to an actual arrest and out of those, only four resulted in a felony conviction.

In the end, only three rapists out of a hundred spent more than one day in jail.

That was if anyone believed the girl in the first place.

In Megan's case, she was just some nobody freshman who went willingly to a party. The boys who had assaulted her were basketball gods.

And gods didn't have to follow the rules of men.

Or so the world too frequently seemed to say.

Perhaps it was too much to ask of a seventeen-year-old girl, to have her have to fight that fight. Perhaps it was too much to ask of anyone.

The question, however, should never have ever needed to come up.

Grissom had never understood - could never understand - what caused men to do those sorts of things to women.

If sex without love was pointless and only left one feeling sad, taking something that should never be taken, only accepted when freely given, horrified him.

True, he knew rape had little to do with sexual gratification. It was all about power and a form of domination he couldn't comprehend.

Megan Freeman deserved better than that. Every rape survivor, for survivors were what they were, deserved better than that.

Already dead at seventeen, Megan would never know what he, himself, hadn't truly learned until he was nearly fifty, that closeness, that connection, how that making love with someone you loved and whom loved you in return was a happiness beyond anything he had ever known.

Sure, he'd had sex with other women before Sara. Not many, but there had been a few. It hadn't been the same. Not even close.

His brief time with Heather Kessler may have helped open his heart; demonstrated that he didn't need to always be the one in control, that it was okay to feel, to open himself up to another human being, to risk being hurt. That he didn't have to always live behind that carefully constructed mask of his. But Sara Sidle had shown him love and acceptance like no one else ever had, awkwardness, insects and all.

It made his heart hurt to think Megan would now never even get a chance at that.

From the current despondent slump of Sara's shoulders, his wife seemed resigned to thoughts very much the same.

"Look," she maintained, attempting to regain some of the objectivity she knew she was sorely lacking at the moment. "I know I can't undo what's done. I can't bring Megan back. Her life is over. _Gone._

"But I can make sure those boys know what they did was not okay.

"And at least this way hopefully they'll never be able to do that to anyone else ever again. That is at least something. That's why I have to do this.

"Someone has to stand up and say this is not okay."

Grissom nodded. He took up her hand and gave it a supportive squeeze in wordless agreement.

In that moment, like so many in the years that he'd had the pleasure to know her, he was proud, fiercely proud, of his wife.

xxxxxx

A/N: Strangely there really is an actual species of slug mites where the unborn male actually impregnates his female siblings while within the womb, therefore breeding without even having actually been born.

Weird, I know.

I encountered this odd little tidbit in Jules Howard's bizarre, yet thoroughly entertaining book, _Sex on Earth_ , a volume I could see Grissom being fascinated by.

As for the inspiration for why Grissom might be reading about slug mite sex in the first place, one night I was in the middle of reading a chapter on T-Rex sex (in another book) when I wondered what I would write back if someone had happened to send me one of those casual _What are you up to?_ texts: _Just reading about dinosaur sex_?

Sadly, while Grissom wouldn't have blushed, I probably would have.

P. S. Don't ask why I was reading about sex in the Jurassic period in the first place.

You don't want to know...

xxxxxxx

On a far more serious note, Megan Freeman's story is loosely based on an actual case, that of 15 year old girl in Saratoga, California who in 2012 hung herself after not only having been assaulted at a party, further found herself publicly humiliated when her rapists wrote and drew obscene things all over her body and then circulated the pictures throughout her high school.

She had known her assailants since junior high.

And it was eight months after her death before any of her three attackers were even arrested.

For a more detailed and in depth look at the issue of rape on college campuses, check out the 2015 documentary _The Hunting Grounds._

Sadly, there are far too many times (100,000 each year alone) when and where the truth is far more frightening than any fiction.


	3. Three: (Yet) Another Day at the Office

**Three: (Yet) Another Day at the Office**

After the not entirely pleasantly eventful night previous, Gil Grissom was surprised to find Sara up and about well before him the next morning.

And yet there she was, already at work in the kitchen, her earbuds in; her softly singing to herself. What exactly Grissom had absolutely no clue, taste in music being one of the few things to ever call attention to the sixteen year age gap between them.

She really was singing though, unrecognizable tune or no, albeit in that perpetually slightly off-key way people did with their headphones on.

Grissom sighed.

While her hair may have been a mess of damp curls, God, was she beautiful like that. Utterly carefree, freshly showered, barefoot and with the sleeves of her lovely silk robe pushed up passed her elbows, Grissom found his wife utterly captivating even if all she was intent on doing at the moment was expertly supreming an orange.

With a great deal of fondness, he couldn't help but recall rather shyly presenting said robe to her that second night of hers aboard, once they, with a rather ebullient Hank in tow, had returned to the _Ishmael_.

The two of them had been in the midst of quietly, companionably getting ready for bed, Sara forgoing the yoga pants and tank top ensemble she had bought earlier that day for just such a purpose to opt instead to commandeer yet another of Grissom button down shirts.

"How about this instead," he offered.

"Already tired of seeing me in your shirts?" Sara sighed as she took in the extended package.

Which was in truth about as far from the truth as one could possibly get. Sara in one and only one of his oxfords was a sight breathtaking to behold, albeit a little inadequate for the low sixties the temperature tended to hover at night on the water. A robe would be equally alluring while a bit warmer. Hence the gift.

Thus Sara unwrapped the plain paper wrapped parcel to reveal a calf-length antique cream-colored silk robe populated with bountiful bevy of deep red and rose hued peonies. Attendant bees buzzed about, dwarfed by the full flower heads.

It was breathtakingly beautiful.

How or where he had managed to find it, Sara hadn't the least clue.

What Grissom didn't tell her was that he hadn't bought it that day during the handful of minutes they had spent apart while Sara had been busy clothes shopping.

Rather he had purchased it years ago now, just before her birthday, that birthday, he had rather catastrophically missed.

Needless to say, he had never managed to give it to her. He'd kept it though, secreted in one of his many secret spots.

Why he had done so, he wasn't himself even sure, as seeing Sara again had until only a few days before felt like an utter impossibility.

He didn't tell her this though. The present still felt too frangible to burden with all the past's baggage.

It didn't matter in any case, Sara slipped on the robe right then and there.

Before long, Grissom had had the even greater pleasure of easing the silk from her shoulders to reveal the even lovelier which lay beneath.

Yes, he really could have stood there all day, only Hank, apparently far more famish than fond that morning, edged passed his master in the doorway and proceeded to perch himself smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor, that doleful _Please feed me now, I'm starving_ look plastered all over his features.

"I'll do it," Grissom volunteered, his voice shattering the spell.

Sara, only just noticing both dog and master, started; hastily tugged the earbuds from her ears.

"Sorry, what was that?" she asked with an uneasy chuckle at being caught mid-verse.

Grissom gestured at the big bowl in front of her, "You keep doing what you're doing. I'll feed Hank."

"Good plan," she agreed.

As the two of them had long ago learned that Hank possessed a rather dogged insistence when it came to certain things, feeding foremost amongst them, it was just better to get it over and done with.

Once done, Grissom came up behind his wife, ostensibly to get a better look at what she was working on, but in truth more just to be near her again. He didn't need the pretense. This time Sara sighed contentedly as his palm slid about her waist.

"Good morning," she nearly purred at the feel of his equally warm breath on the back of her neck.

And it was. Despite the nightmare of the night before, it was a good morning.

"Good morning," he greeted her in return, his words buzzing against her skin as he nuzzled her neck.

He breathed her in. Her still damp curls smelled of lavender, her skin of French milled soap, a rare indulgence recently brought back from Paris.

"Smells good," he observed.

"It's just breakfast," she replied with a self-deprecating laugh.

Whether intentionally mistaking the source of his compliment or no, her husband didn't know.

All Sara knew was she was currently having a much harder time concentrating on her cutting.

At the way the morning air was redolent with the fragrance of warming bread, Grissom questioned a bit caught off guard, "You baked?"

Sara scoffed. Cooking might just be chemistry you eat, but she certainly hadn't been up for anything as complicated or time consuming as bread making that morning.

"Just toasted," she said. Then having just remembered she had left something in the oven, she gently nudged her husband aside so she could remove the cookie sheet of bread slices before they burnt.

"I completely forgot about the new toaster," she said by way of explanation. "Had to improvise a bit."

At the way he was intently examining her Sara said, "You aren't disappointed, are you?"

Taking in all the ingredients for his favorite breakfast, Grissom replied, "Hardly."

Returning to her orange, Sara said, "I... I didn't wake you?"

Knowing she had woken - then proceeded to keep him up half the night - she really had tried to be quiet. Let him get some sleep. He needed it.

"Not at all," he assured her. For he had slept through her rising, the sound of her shower. Perhaps it had been the enticing smells that had ultimately woken him. It certainly hadn't been her singing. Though he might have teased her about said singing if only he wasn't far more curious about something else first.

"You been up long?" he asked, his turn to be concerned.

Sara shrugged. "Not long."

"Define _not long_ -"

Considering the bread had been toasted, she was on the last of her oranges, and she'd already had a shower, Grissom thought it apropos to ask.

Sara shook her head. "No more than thirty minutes," she replied and shot him a look that asked _Satisfied?_

Apparently Grissom was - at least for now.

Normally, Sara might have taken advantage of being back on _terra firma_ once again to go out for a run. Needed one probably, as she was still having a hard time getting her land legs back beneath her after all their time at sea. She certainly missed the sureness of the water beneath her feet. Only these past few days it had proven far far more tempting to linger over long in bed with her husband instead.

It was after all their honeymoon.

That morning she had been tempted to slip back beneath the sheets and not for sleep. But she really hadn't wanted to wake him - twice.

Plus, after the pancakes the day before it was her turn to make breakfast.

"Besides," she shot back far more amused than vexed, "since when do you ask questions you already know the answer to, Gilbert?"

Grissom opted to ignore this, instead he asked, his eyes warm, yet still worried, "You okay?"

"Yeah." And she meant it.

Thanks to him, she was.

Realizing she had not as yet told him as much, Sara turned to her husband.

Only to find she had to grin at the sight of him.

His short, grizzled hair stood up at rakish angles, still mussed from sleep, rendering him far more boyishly attractive than his near sixty years would suggest. But it was the fact that he was wrapped up in his old, ratty flannel bathrobe that amused her to no end. Like that ancient straw hat of his, Sara never could manage to persuade him to part with it. Not that she tried all that hard. Both were as much Gil Grissom as his insects and his ever-ready quips.

"I'm... I'm glad you're here," Sara said.

"Me, too," he happily agreed.

Sara was about to reach out to caress his cheek, when she recalled just how sticky oranges rendered fingers. "Orange?" she offered awkwardly instead.

Grissom didn't care. He never did. She should have realized that the moment he used his lips and not his fingers to take the fruit from her.

Not content with this singular sampling, he went ahead upon swallowing the supreme, to take each of his wife's fingers in his mouth in order to one-by-one softly suck the juice from them. His tongue lingered along the webbing; he nibbled at her palm. But when his mouth closed over the inside of one wrist, there was no way to misconstrue her slight gasp of " _Gil-_ " as a request to stop.

"What time to we have to be in today?" he murmured into her skin.

" _We_?" Sara echoed incredulously.

"Yeah," he replied, then proceeded to punctuate each of his next words with a kiss. "You - Me - _We_ -"

When she continued to goggle at him, he paused to say, "If that's okay with you."

"Checking up on my work?" she asked.

Grissom chuckled. "I wouldn't waste my time."

Sara couldn't help but smile at this, too. "You don't have something better to do today? Or is this your way of keeping an eye on your overly emotional wife?"

"I wouldn't dream of that either."

This, Sara knew, wasn't entirely true. Grissom might not say as much, but she knew he worried about her. She didn't mind it quite so much these days. Once he'd claimed it was part of his job as husband to worry about her. Him, again her husband, Sara opted to let him.

She'd been silly in any case, trying to shield him - and their life - from the case that had brought them both back to Vegas. Last night proved that.

Sara thought back to another night, not even a week before, when Grissom had vowed, "No matter what may come, wherever this life may take us, I will be there with you. Always -" and she knew his words hadn't been just words to him.

Yes, last night had proved that, too. That her husband was committed to sharing all of their lives - even the ugly parts - touched her.

"We were," he said, apparently having not given up his attempts at wheedling, "a pretty good team in Paris, if I recall correctly."

 _True._

Sara considered this for a moment. She could see the value of another set of eyes, particularly, if they were Gil Grissom's. Plus, she had to admit it would be nice having his reassuring presence beside her throughout the day.

"You up for joining the dark side?" she asked. "Just temporarily," she hurriedly assured him.

"You mean playing devil's advocate?" he asked.

"Defense attorney, but same thing."

"Like I said, what time do we need to be in?" replied Grissom by way of agreement.

"I put in a request for the layout room for after nine. Shouldn't be a problem. Place should be practically empty with the holiday and all."

However Sara wasn't so sure her husband had heard anything beyond the time, particularly when he murmured "After nine -" with such a low, longing sort of rumble in his throat, she felt it all the way in her belly.

"Plenty of time," he concluded pleased.

Sara considered playing coy and asking _For what_? but she needn't bother. From the way his blue eyes had both brightened and deepened all at once, she had a pretty good idea of what he was suggesting.

She couldn't exactly blame him, even if she had wanted to. Which she didn't. Over the past few months, she had been equally guilty of derailing previous plans in favor of a morning, afternoon or evening of lovemaking. Sara certainly wasn't about to complain. Two months together again had done little to diminish their mutual desire. This week in particular they couldn't seem to get enough of each other.

One less thing for her mother-in-law to worry about in any case.

No, there was definitely no way to mistake her husband's attentions, particularly once his fingers began to trace their way along the bare skin about her neck that the cut of her robe left exposed. They began to slowly dip below while his other hand skimmed across her belly before coming to rest at the knot at her waist. His eyes silently seeking and soon receiving permission he gave the fabric a gentle tug only to pleasantly discover she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Grissom grinned.

Soon not just his eyes, but his hands were taking her in. Sara laughed; kissed him long and deep, the kiss rendered sweet with orange - and love.

As she steered him towards the bedroom, Sara mentally revised her plans.

 _Ten, maybe even eleven, would do just as well._

They had all day. There was no reason to hurry in. No reason to hurry anything at all.

It was their honeymoon after all.

xxxxxxx

It was far nearer to ten than nine by the time Grissom and Sara finally made it to the lab.

With his wife back by his side, Grissom found the place even with all its attendant changes far easier to take. The last time he'd been here the place had felt foreign, as if he hadn't spent more than a decade of his life wandering these exact same halls. But with Sara, it was easy, so easy to slip effortlessly into their regular work rhythms. And today it really was just like the old times, the best of the old times.

In the commandeered layout room, Sara carefully laid out her testimony piece by piece. As it was her words that would tell the tale, Sara knew she was the one most responsible for bringing Megan Freeman's death to life.

With all his usual patience, Grissom listened throughout, considered, then systematically set about dissecting every scrap of evidence she presented in search of any weak spots the defense might elect to use as points of attack.

For which Sara was infinitely grateful.

While she already had double - indeed triple - checked every detail, she knew her husband had a sharper eye for the facts than most defense attorneys. It didn't matter how long he'd been off the job. That and he always did know how to ask just the right question.

But then when it came to the evidence, Gil Grissom had long maintained that having the right question mattered far, far more than having the right answer.

Still, it proved to be grueling, tedious, if essential work. Which was why the two of them could be found still ensconced in the layout room hard at it nearly twelve hours later.

So much for feasting on tofurkey.

As the day progressed Sara had grown quieter and quieter. Grissom could practically feel the fight begin to leave her as her fatigue and frustration grew. Yet though she was well past wilting, she insisted on staying at it.

"The science is with you," he assured her.

"I'm starting to think it isn't the science I'm worried about."

"You'll be fine."

"I don't feel fine," she reluctantly confessed.

"Just remember, dear: 'You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think,'" he quoted.

Despite it all, Sara found she had to smile at this.

"Since when did you start taking advice from a book about a bear with very little brains?" she teased.

"Since it's good advice," he replied. "And don't forget the most important part."

"And what is that?"

"The most important thing is 'even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.'"

Sara chuckled. "Smart boy, that Christopher Robin. You, too," she added fondly.

"Honey, it's time," Grissom said, placing a pink post-it note on top of her open file folder.

 _S_ _3_ was all it said.

Sara easily translated it: Shower, Sustenance. Sleep.

So much for their usual no shorthand policy.

"Come on," he urged. "I'll help you get it all cleaned up."

When Sara wordlessly agreed, he set about assisting her in packing up the last of the evidence boxes.

Once they had both slipped on their coats, they strolled out together arm in arm, as if it were the most normal, natural thing in the world.

Already bone weary, Sara readily acquiesced when Grissom insisted on driving the two of them home. Soon half dozing as she was in the passenger seat of her Prius, it took her a while to realize they were headed not towards her apartment, but rather The Strip.

"Gil, it's the other way," she halfheartedly reminded him.

"We have to make a stop first," Grissom insisted.

"The Chinese place still delivers on Thanksgiving."

"It's not a food stop," he replied.

But before she could inquire further, he was pulling into the valet lane of New York New York and urging her out the car door.

"Half an hour," he maintained before she could even begin to protest. "Not even."

Not having the energy left to fight him, Sara let him lead the way.

Once he had tugged her past the hotel's front desk, up a set of escalators, then towards a sign advertising Nathan's Famous Hotdogs, Sara suddenly had a fairly good idea of where they were headed: The Big Apple Coaster.

"A roller coaster, Gil?" she asked anyway.

Sara wasn't much into thrill rides. Despite her husband's well-known longstanding roller coaster obsession, they'd never actually ridden one together.

His suddenly boyish expression said _Why not?_

"Come on," he urged, "you can't tell me you've never ridden a roller coaster before."

"No, not never. I just don't remember the last time -"

"Couldn't have been doing it right then," he said with a smile.

When Sara persisted in looking reluctant, her husband opted for another tack. "Don't tell me there's something Sara Sidle is afraid of."

"I never said I was afraid -"

"What then? Don't you trust me, Sara?" he asked, his eyes a twinkle in a way she never could resist.

"Strangely, somehow that doesn't exactly inspire confidence, Gilbert," she said anyway.

At his hurt quirk of an eyebrow she said, "Of course I trust you."

"Then trust me," he maintained. "It will clear your head. Promise."

Spoken like a man of much experience.

Part of her wanted to ask if their life hadn't been enough of a roller coaster for him, but as he was currently wearing that earnest, insistent look of his, Sara realized resistance was futile. She never could deny him anything when he gave her _that_ look. Her husband probably knew it too.

Then another thought struck her. In this, he was, she realized, trying to share a little bit of himself, of his own life, with her. Melted by this, Sara surrendered, slipped her arm through his again and indicated he should continue to lead the way.

Out in front of the ride, a harried-looking, freckle-faced, shaggy red-haired, twenty-something gave the two of them a piercing once over. "You just finish having a big Thanksgiving dinner?" he inquired glumly.

Grissom and Sara exchanged looks.

"No," Grissom finally answered.

To which the young man immediately appeared visibly relieved. "Had to ask, man. Already had to shut the thing down four times to clean up the puke. Believe me, I'll be thankful when Thanksgiving is over."

As he ushered them to their seats, both Grissom and Sara each thought, though did not say, _Could be worse. Like three week old de-comp in a duffle bag worse_. They doubted "Kevin," as his nametag proclaimed him, would appreciate that fact.

In any case, Sara was far too busy trying to keep her own momentary queasiness at bay as the coaster car laboriously ratcheted up the first hill.

"Breathe, dear," Grissom reminded her. "It's mean to be -"

The rest of his sentence was drown out by the mad rush of air as they were falling - falling - falling - faster and faster and faster.

Her heart raced. Her stomach swooped. The night and the all the lights of Vegas blurred about her. The wind raced. Sara screamed until her lungs emptied of the last of their air. Then she laughed with relief.

As they spun and dove, she griped his hand hard, painfully hard; her husband let her.

And Grissom was right. _Big surprise._

By the time the ride had come to a complete stop, Sara really did feel better, albeit still a bit breathless. Though her husband tended to have that affect on her anyway.

But before they could climb out of the carriage to go, she said, "Can we do it again?"

As no one else waited, the attendant shrugged his okay.

Grissom, beaming bright, told his wife, "Only you might want to try it with your eyes open the whole time, dear."

xxxxxxx

A/N: For more about Grissom and Sara's Thanksgiving night see _Feint of Heart_ Chapter Four: "On the Home Front."


End file.
